


excision

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Biology Inaccuracies, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Body Modification, Don't Try This At Home, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), Trans Michael "Mike" Crew, amateur surgery, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: One hand buried in the hollow below his ribcage, all Mike can think about is how reckless this is.Or; while Mike Crew has the Boneturner's Tale, he gives himself top surgery.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 101





	excision

**Author's Note:**

> jonny made mike crew short and affably evil and a wearer of unbuttoned button-up shirts and told me to project on him and i said yes sir
> 
> the words "breasts" and "chest" are both used about mike's chest
> 
> (100th work! trans rights!)

One hand buried in the hollow below his ribcage, all Mike can think about is how reckless this is. 

It’s a strange sensation, to feel your flesh from the inside. As he tries to get used to the pain, he traces a finger along the curve of one of his ribs. The human body is so fragile, so breakable.

He holds a book in his other hand, pages splayed open and white as bone. The instructions it weaves are terrifying and fascinating at once; they draw him in, promising change on his own terms. Agency is an appealing thought to Mike, almost unfamiliar.

_ Reckless, _ he thinks again, finger stroking across his own beating heart.

He’s never known the paranormal to be anything other than horrific, and he’s not foolish enough to assume that the Boneturner’s Tale is any different. It bleeds malice as much as blood, red seeping through the cover and dripping down his fingers.

His scar is prickling under his skin, alight with static electricity that etches into his bones— but for once, that isn’t a part of his dissatisfaction with what he sees in the mirror.

(It will be, soon. But not yet.)

What he’s focused on now, to put it bluntly, is his breasts.

His reflection’s mouth twists in discomfort at just that thought. His chest, he corrects himself, not that it makes him feel much better. It’s still there, a clear tell to anyone who meets him.

Mike intends to fix that, no matter what it takes.

Breathing shallowly through his teeth, he pushes his hand further up through the warm viscera that make up the human body. There’s a subtle division between his breast tissue and his pectoral muscles; he feels the tendons flex as he works his fingers into that gap. It’s like a tear-here line, an instruction written into his flesh. 

Deep breaths. It’ll be no good if he passes out halfway through the process. 

Before he can hesitate for too long, Mike forces his fingers upwards, tearing flesh from flesh. He wrenches his arm outwards, pulling that mass of tissue through his skin.

It is, in a way, like being struck by lightning all over again. The pain flares in the core of him and spreads outwards in a split-second, and his nerves don’t seem to know what to do with it. He hears himself let out a cry, the awful, strangled sound of a dying animal.

Then, just as quickly, the pain becomes manageable.

Mike’s hands shake as he reorients himself. His grip must have loosened; something wet and solid impacts the bathroom floor, and his bloodied fingers are tight around empty air.

He can’t bring himself to look down. He hates himself for that, just a little. In the last week, he’s buried two bodies: the remnants of his initial experiments with this book. Seeing a part of himself splattered on the ground— it shouldn’t be any different. It’s all just flesh.

Instead, he looks in the mirror and grins at himself. Now that the pain is wearing down to a dull ache, a rush of endorphins is filling him with joy, like tipping over the peak of a rollercoaster and plummeting into oblivion. The human body rewards doing what it takes to survive.

It takes more courage, the second time around. 

Mike moves his fingers through his flesh as though his skin is made of water. The pain builds and builds, a tidal wave waiting to crash through him, and when he finally digs his fingers in and  _ pulls—  _ he drowns.

When he comes back to himself, he’s breathing heavily, leaning against the edge of his bathtub as his legs shake beneath him. The world is spinning around him, but he grits his teeth and raises the Boneturner’s Tale into his field of vision. The hard part is over with.

The blood on Mike’s fingers leaves no marks as he pages through the book. It only takes him a few moments to find what he’s looking for: the tale of an old man, wrinkled by years of good life, and the way the Bonesmith pulled his skin taut until you could see all of the bones underneath.

Grotesque, but perfectly suited to Mike’s purpose right now.

In the mirror, the skin of his chest sags, deflated and crumpled. His strong stomach is the only thing stopping him from throwing up as he presses his fingers to the edges and begins to rub circles into his skin. Slowly, a dull ache building under his touch, his skin tightens and tightens, until it looks as natural as if he were born with it.

Taking a shaky breath, Mike stands up to his full height, looking at himself in the mirror as he turns around. He drops the book to the floor so he can smooth his hands down his sides, admiring the sharp, straight lines of his body.

It isn’t perfect, of course. The absence of weight on his chests accentuates the curve of his hips, his jawline is still soft. He’s got no illusions that he’s anywhere close to passing — he doesn’t have the free time to invest in learning the intricacies of the endocrine system, and even if he did, it’s hardly likely that the Boneturner’s Tale would allow manipulation on that level.

Mike turns around again, tracing a straight line down his chest with one bloody finger.

He hasn’t even left a scar. For some reason, he thinks he might be sad about that. At least if it had left a scar, it would have been one that he’d chosen. The Lichtenberg figure still crests across his skin, its mark far greater than the one Mike has left on himself.

This was just a test, he reminds himself. Removing a non-essential part of his body to get a feel for it, so he doesn’t kill himself when he tries to erase the scar seared into his bones.

Still, Mike can’t help but smile when he looks at himself in the mirror. This is survival too.

**Author's Note:**

> if you happen to get a hold of an eldritch flesh-book... don't try this at home, kids


End file.
